Blog of a Teenager on Drug Rehabilitation

13th May 2001 I was officially locked up today. I have a cell; a cell. How preposterous! Back home, I had nearly the whole wing of my mansion – my own private bed chamber, dining room, library … the facilities were endless. Now I’m reduced to having a mere cell and worst – a room mate. How can one not feel claustrophobic? This place is fit for a … convict. Which means it fits me perfectly. I know myself through and through. Being a son of a business tycoon and growing up with a silver spoon in my mouth has ruined me; it’s made me become a ‘bad apple’, as the rest of my wealthy relatives are openly calling me now: Caught taking …Aiyoh, I can’t believe he actually tried to spoil our family’s name. What a bad apple! How annoying. What my relatives said did have some truth. All I ever wanted was some attention, an ounce of warmth that cold, hard cash could never dream of replacing. Initially, all I wanted to do was to take a little bit of Ice, get caught, and then wake my parents up from their various social parties and zest for enlarging their social circle. One thing led to another and I couldn’t control myself. I partied too much and began to take even more sinister-looking pills. Alcohol also became my friend and cigarettes were my companions.  Much to my horror, my parents did not even bat an eyelid when the police eventually called them up to notify them about my offences. They cared more for their social graces. I was just a speck of dust in their eyes, one that was supposed to be the inheritor, but now was reduced to an inmate. My ingenious plan had backfired – crushing all my hopes and dreams along with it. Now what? In this dingy place, all I can hope for is some kind of an education. At least I get a few minutes here and there every once in a while to use the library with internet connection... I don't really use blogs, but being shut off from friends, it's the next best thing. 22nd December 2001 I can’t really keep track of what’s happening. The days are melting together. Monday, Tuesday, Friday. They’re all the same to me. In this place, dreary routine takes place; never changing, never stopping. Today was special though. My exalted mother graced the Centre with her presence, bringing with her the stench of too much perfume and the mountain of presents comprising various scrumptious delicacies. The scent attracted the curious albeit love-struck glances from the guards and the food – originally meant for me, went into their pockets.  February 2002 (can’t remember the date for now) Mother came again. This time, she came with much less fanfare. Her news came as a shock. Father’s dead. It was the cigarettes that killed him. I was now supposed to inherit the companies which Father owned – too bad my name was tinted. Mother said that she would look into the matter, but what she really wants is a son who is outstanding and ready to fit into his father’s shoes. I, a criminal, am totally wrong for the job. I long to be freed, to see the sky... I long to walk about, not watched by sentinels. I long... 15 June 2002 I’ve been here for more than a year. The walls no longer seem so small. I’ve gotten used to my room mate and the time table, and I’ve come to expect less from everyone. Only two more years left to freedom, though I wonder what awaits me there. I'm tired of routine and counseling sessions that last the greater part of the day, or worse, when I go into "Cold Turkey".  It's a quirky name for a phantasmal experience. My addiction is leaving me, along with my spirit and zest for life. I feel like an empty shell that's just existing. My pillars of support that were never strong have long crumbled. What else is there to live for? 7 September 2002 Mother came with a double for me. I should have known. He was tall, well-built, smart, and approachable and yet had a quiet air of dignity around him. He was to be her new son – to live the life that she wanted me to live. I did not even border finding out what his name was. Let him have the companies and the business empire. This family fraud is just too treacherous for me. Money really isn’t everything, not matter how cliché that sounds. I walked out on my mother today; just as she walked out of my life years ago. 25 December 2002 Merry…Christmas. I’ll be getting an early release from this centre - good behavior, good grades, good attitude. Yada yada yada. It’s set for 31st May 2003. I have it marked with neon-red on the wall calendar in my cell. The countdown begins, whilst the morning's chores around the rehabilitation centre awaits me. I have counseling sessions every morning now. 31st March 2003 I just have two months left here. With that, this ‘rehabilitation diary’ would end. My cell mates have commented that I have been looking more robust these days...that I do not have that weak, almost transparent skin and awful blood-shot eyes. This metamorphosis is largely due to the care I'm getting in this place, which is more than what my 'parents' have ever given me. 31st May 2003 I’m taking the liberty of penning a long (and final) entry this time, to mark my release. This is the only journal entry that was not typed in the centre. I have been released, and will never go back there: The heavy footsteps thundering past my head woke me from my peaceful slumber. The light sifting in through the window blinded my eyes painfully as I forced open my eyelids and the cacophony of sounds overwhelmed my senses. The acrid stench of old sweat and mould assaulted me and I bolted upright suddenly as if my mind had just woken up. The image of the open window cleared as it came into focus and the vertical iron shafts deeply embedded in it came into view. The heavy footsteps approached again and stopped abruptly with a slight scuffle outside the black steel bars of my cramped cell. The prison guard clad in blue rapped his nightstick loudly on the steel bars of my cell and I turned slowly in his direction. The guard, with his eyes hidden in the shadow formed by his cap then spat out the side of his mouth and stalked away purposefully, with me following close behind. I had been waiting for this day for years, since the day I was handcuffed and thrown in the back of the police car and locked up in the Drug Rehabilitation Centre. I had been waiting for my freedom since the day I lost my way, and the consequences caught up with me. The life I had before seemed like a distant memory, yet I could see, taste, and smell the lingering stench that life had left with me. The substance abuse, the loud music in the discotheques, the aimless wandering in the dimly-lit streets and the excitement of the frequent brushes with the law were once meat and wine to me. To think it all started with wanting to single-handedly ‘fix’ my family problem. Now, it seemed worse than foolish. The wasted years were catching up with me and I was none-the-wiser. I gathered what little belongings I had with me and wrapped them in the thin rag that passed for a blanket in this place. Another faceless guard unlocked the iron mesh door and slid it open as the rusty rails squeaked and shrieked noisily. I walked past him slowly, not quite catching up yet with the reality of my situation. I padded barefoot past the rows of cells quietly; past the cracked cement floors, the rusty iron railings and cells, past the flickering and buzzing fluorescent lamps. I walked past the physical places and objects that had somehow managed to hold my mind, spirit and freedom captive for the past few years. I could leave my past behind, but would it ever release its death grip on my sanity? The burly and moustached Ghurkha with the sub-machine gun placed my belongings that I had with me on the day of my arrest on the Spartan chip wood table inside the guard room. The button-down T-Shirt looked extremely foreign and the faded jeans still reeked of cigarette smoke. Cigarettes; they were portrayed as the essential addition to the modern teenaged rebel. The faked Byronic demeanour was part of the look one had to achieve, and the putrid smoke did more than obscure one's vision. It was barely past my first year in captivity when decades of puffing took its toll on my father's ailing lungs and nobody even noticed when he slumped over his desk after the seizure; so much for his wonderful social circle. Soon after, the visits from my mother grew more and more infrequent. She had found my double. What use was a son with a criminal record for her ultimate fame and glory? The visits stopped quickly, and with the death of my non-existent family, came the death of my innocence. The Ghurkha guard unlocked the three heavy padlocks holding the main door to the compound secure, and the warm afternoon sunlight penetrated and scoured away at the dank and mildew-infested interior of the main holding area of the compound. I stared down the weathered concrete pathway lined with weeds and cow grass that led to the gate of the perimeter fence. I hesitated and for a while and the silence engulfed me as the afternoon breeze tickled my bare legs. The chatter of restless inmates, the gruff barking of the prison guards and all the other sights and sounds I had gotten used to were suddenly gone; absent and non-existent. I felt apprehensive and for a while, I wondered if I had become institutionalized. "Crzzte....Watchdog to circle compass, secure?"  "Secure. Prisoner is en route."  "Roger." The guards with the rifles manning the guard towers climbed down the ladders and proceeded to pull open the heavy steel gates topped with the razor-sharp barbed wire. I emerged slowly from the darkness into the hot and blazing sunlight, and walked slowly down the pathway for the second time since I came in three years ago. The shadows seemed to claw at me, and the inmates playing basketball in the recreational area beside the path glazed enviously at me. Finally, the gates closed behind me, and I looked at the occasional car pass by the gates. I had no inkling of what I wanted, and I had no purpose. Would there be a silver lining for me?   By: Chew Hui Ghee (7) 4B1

Copyright 2003 (Chew Hui Ghee aka Incarcerated). Site Designed by http://www.quickness.uni.cc. This site was made for a Civics and Moral Education Project. All Rights Reserved.